I Bet My Life
by AndAllThatMishigas
Summary: Harry must race against the clock to make a harrowing rescue. Inspired by "I Bet My Life" by Imagine Dragons.
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Note: I've had this story in mind for almost 2 years and I finally decided to explore it. The line in the Imagine Dragons songs (by the same name) will be used later, because I think it's so very Harry and Ruth. It took me a little while to figure out how to structure this story, so I decided we'll have a few short chapters. Not sure how many; I'm making it up as I go. Please review and let me know your thoughts!_**  
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**I Bet My Life**

It was nearly all Harry could take. He was so ready to resign and sell his house and move to a cottage by the sea and never look back. He wanted to say 'bugger the Home Office' and be rid of all the mess of the world.

Connie's death and her betrayal and the years and years of lies were almost enough to push him over the edge. But Harry Pearce had been betrayed before. Harry Pearce had lost friends before—both to ill ideologies and to death. And he was left standing on the wall.

Safe in his office with its aggressive red wall and its clean glass and chrome lines, Harry knew he should be grateful for Malcolm's quick thinking in directing Lucas to rescue him from being kidnapped by the Russians. He'd nearly not made it, but he was back where he belonged and had barely a scratch. He'd suffered a lot more for a lot less before. Though he was getting a bit old to be knocked about the way he used to. Harry was useful by virtue of his field experience, but he was most useful behind a desk nowadays.

And really, that's why he was still here. He was useful. He was needed. He could do good by standing on the wall and making the difficult choices. Working with Connie despite her treachery had been a difficult choice but the right one. Going to talk to the Russians had been a difficult choice but very much the right one. He'd done a lot of that in his time.

The most difficult, by far, and the one that haunted him every single day since, was Ruth. He'd made the choice to let her sacrifice for him. To let her go. To say goodbye and watch her take his very heart on that boat with her. He'd not felt fully whole since she left. And when he was feeling hopeless and low, like he was now, Harry recalled her sacrifice and her brilliance and her beauty and her kindness. And when he wanted to give up, as he did now, he knew he couldn't. Ruth had given up everything to make sure he could stay in the job and continue to make the difficult choices to do good. And for her, he'd continue doing it.

Harry's wallowing was interrupted just then when a sharp knock came before the door to his office was opened. Malcolm came inside and closed the door behind him, looking very concerned indeed.

"Malcolm? I thought you'd gone?" Harry asked in slight confusion.

"I had. I came back. One of the junior analysts called me."

"What for?"

"A few years ago, I set up a series of alerts. Particular names and legends in the system to be flagged with an instruction to direct it personally to me. One of my alerts popped up on a commercial flight manifest, so Travis called me."

Harry vaguely knew who Travis was, a young transfer from Section A who, if Harry recalled correctly, had a very unfortunate stammer. "What's your alert for?" he asked Malcolm.

"A name. A name I put on the alert as a bit of a stupid longshot, not expecting it to ever come to anything. But when Travis called and told me what the alert had been, I immediately came back to the Grid to check it and to do my own work in verifying it. And I did. It's real."

The obfuscation was more than Harry had the patience for right now. "What's real, Malcolm? What do you need from me?" he asked perhaps more sharply than was warranted.

"The name on my alert is Ruth Pearce."


	2. Chapter 2

Harry felt a rush of adrenaline, causing him to stand up sharply. The blood was rushing in his ears, and he felt mildly like he might be sick. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth as he choked out words, barely giving any sound to his voice. "What do you mean, Ruth Pearce?"

"Our Ruth…your Ruth," Malcolm corrected. "That's why I set up that particular one. Wishful thinking, I suppose."

He did not say anything, but Harry could not help but agree. Wish fulfillment indeed. At the time, when they had been dancing around the idea of dating—had gone on one singular date, a rather lovely one to his mind—Harry had not gotten around to thinking of marriage. His thoughts had been much shorter term. Though not so short term as they ended up having.

Everything had happened so quickly. He'd wasted so much bloody time, working up the nerve to ask her out. He had been terrified that he would come on too strong, that he would scare her away, that she would turn him down, or, even worse, that she would think him a barmy old man and a disgusting boss abusing his power over a subordinate. But Harry should have known better, because Ruth _knew _him. That kind, gentle heart of hers found a way to care for him. She had wanted to know him and she had, possibly better than anyone else in Harry's life for years and years. And Harry wanted her to know him, wanted to tell her things, wanted to share his thoughts and feelings with her.

And then, once he'd figured out he wanted those things and made an attempt to let it happen, it was over. She'd run scared, as he'd feared she might. And before he could slowly but carefully lay to rest all of her worries and convince her that what they shared was worth exploring, she was gone. In the whirlwind of Cotterdam and trying to fix everything and trying to keep out of Mace's clutches, Harry's heart had gone into overdrive. He realized that what he felt for Ruth, the way he admired her and trusted her and craved her, was in fact love. Love the likes of which he'd not ever known. When he had loved his wife, he had been young and optimistic. Love like that cannot survive in the shadows where Harry Pearce resided. But with Ruth, it was different. She was a ray of light in those shadows. And she stood tall and held his hand through the darkness. He loved her.

He'd tried to tell her he loved her, of course, but she hadn't let him. _Leave it as something wonderful that was never said_. Those words haunted him. Deep in the recesses of his mind, he could hear the echo of her voice in the wind on the docks on that day. He could still feel the press of her cold lips against his and the way she repeated it for a second and third time as she whispered, "Let me go." And he had let her go. He'd let her go and had suffered without her every day since.

During those days together on the Grid, Harry had not thought far enough ahead to ever imagine that he and Ruth might end up married. But after she left, when he was left with those memories to torment him during sleepless nights, he tried to think of what it might have been like if they'd been allowed a chance to be together. And yes, he had fantasized that he would marry her. Make her Mrs. Pearce. Or rather, Lady Pearce now.

Malcolm allowed Harry the kindness of his shock, to process what he'd just told his friend. But for the sake of time, he continued, telling Harry, "She's on a plane as we speak. The passport she's traveling with is Romanian. The flight she's on took off from Bucharest about half an hour ago."

"Where's she going?" Harry asked, knowing that there might be a slim chance that he could find her, that he could get her back. If only he knew where she would be, perhaps he could get there quicker, could find her at the airport.

The smallest hint of a smile crossed Malcolm's lips as he answered, "Paris."


	3. Chapter 3

"Get me a flight," Harry demanded. His mind was whirring, trying to figure out what he needed to bring, what he was going to do, how he'd find her, what he'd do when he did find her. It was all too much, but one thing was clear through it all: he had to get to her. Finally, after all this time, she was so bloody _close_, and Harry could not bear to let this miraculous opportunity pass him by.

Malcolm nodded. "Already done. I've got a car waiting for you to go to Heathrow. You'll be able to get right on the plane on the tarmac without customs and security and such. And you might want to pick up a sidearm on your way out."

Harry regarded him sharply at that. He wouldn't have left in a hurry to do anything without a gun anyway, but the fact that Malcolm had operationally warned him to do so was concerning. "What for?" he asked.

The look Malcolm gave him was in equal parts kind and patronizing. "Harry, you know Ruth. You know she's been careful the last two years. Why do you think she's used this particular name and gone somewhere so close to home? I think she wants us to find her, and if she does, after everything that's happened, I can't help but worry that she's running from something that might scare her more than getting caught by British Intelligence."

Malcolm was right and Harry knew it. Ruth would not have even used the name Ruth, let alone with his surname, if she did not specifically want them to find her. And Malcolm had found her. But the possible reason for her to need to be found was concerning, to say the least. "What makes you think she's running from something?" Perhaps there was more to this than Malcolm was letting on.

"I've got a bit more digging to do. I'll send my files to your mobile so you can read it on the way. But I do think you should be ready for anything, Harry," Malcolm replied with a grim expression.

He nodded. Ready for anything was part and parcel to his entire life. This was nothing new, in that regard. But this was _Ruth_. He was actually going to see her again. He was actually going to find her. Somehow, someway, they'd be together again. And if she was running away from something, if she was desperate and in need of rescuing, he was more than pleased that she'd thought to alert him to her presence, to go somewhere he could get to her quickly. A place that, to Harry's mind, meant something to them.

They wasted no more time. Harry put on his coat and took the flight details from Malcolm. He got his Walther PPK—the gun he never liked to use but rather liked to have in his own James Bond silly fantasies—out of the locked drawer of his desk. Harry checked that the magazine was full before tucking it into his belt for the time being. His suit jacket covered it well enough.

Malcolm accompanied Harry out the doors of Thames House to the waiting pool car. "Good luck, Harry. Bring her home."

Harry nodded resolutely. He would bring her home. He would find her and bring her home. And, god willing, she'd be safe and whole, and he wouldn't need to use the gun pressed into his hip where he sat in the car.


	4. Chapter 4

Ruth knew she was thirty thousand feet in the air and safe from everything on the ground below her. She knew that. But she could not stop the irrational panic that her troubles had followed her. That her new identity had not cloaked her in security as she had hoped. That the moment she walked out onto a Paris street, she would be taken back to the darkness she'd fought to escape.

The fact that she had escaped was a bloody miracle. If he knew who she really was, if he knew her background, he would not have let her out of his sight for a minute. But thankfully Renata Eder was no one important. Not very clever or very interesting or very noticeable. Renata followed instructions and blushed bright pink whenever a man smiled at her. Renata was simple and gentle and she knew nothing, and she was expendable.

At least that's what Ruth had thought. She did not think she'd let on how much attention she was paying. She assumed that no one suspected her at all.

Oh how wrong she was.

But for now, just for now, she was safe. She was flying high above the clouds and nervously sipping ginger ale. There was a film playing on the flight. It was American. Something with a blonde Sandra Bullock and a large boy playing football. The subtitles were in Romania, so Ruth assumed the audio would have been dubbed in French, given that she was on a flight between Bucharest and Paris. But she did not bother to ask for headphones and she had no interest in watching the film. She just let the moving colors wash over her glazed vision as she focused on her breathing.

She had concocted this scheme in a hurry, as she'd needed to figure out something—anything—in a hurry. She had no idea what was going to be waiting for her when she landed in Paris. But she knew that whatever it was would be better than what would have surely been her fate if she'd stayed in Bucharest.

It was a mad idea, to use this name for her false passport. Thank god Romanian border control wasn't too clever. She knew that all to well, thanks to the time she'd spent yelling in broken Romanian at a state police officer when they were trying to get an al Qaeda operative stopped at the port in Constanta after travelling across the Black Sea from Turkey. There had been no improvement in three years, so far as she could tell.

Simplicities of fooling the Romanian authorities aside, the name Ruth Pearce was sure to be flagged. And what were the odds of it being flagged by the right people? The right person, really.

In spite of her nerves, Ruth smiled to herself. Her heart fluttered in her chest at the very idea that, if every little detail somehow worked out, she might get to see Harry again. There was every chance he'd forgotten about her and moved on with his life. He was still alive and still at Five, that much she'd been able to discern from infrequent and untraceable internet searches over the last two years. But surely he had a life all his own in her absence. Surely he had not ached for her as she had for him.

Perhaps she'd built it all up too much in her mind, her memories of her time with him. Their heartbreaking goodbye on the London docks had all the melodrama of a great Jane Austen romance. Only there had been no happy ending for the lost lovers to reunite. Frederick Wentworth went off with the Navy and Anne Elliot was left with her unkindly father and sister.

But what if—and the thought barely warranted thinking about, it was so fanciful—this could be the triumphant return of Captain Wentworth with his fortune to the waiting Miss Elliot for them to rediscover their love for one another and to be happy together for all their days?

Ruth shook herself. This was not Persuasion. This was not some romantic novel. This was real life. Ruth was no lady fair awaiting her rescuing gentleman of means. Harry was no lovestruck hero. No, Ruth was running from violent arms dealers and Harry was probably safe in his office, none the wiser to her plight.

Because if this was a love story, Ruth would not be hoping the makeup she'd caked on had sufficiently covered the bruises all over her face, and she would not be sitting on a plane to make her escape with a hired assassin sitting three rows behind her, watching her every move.


	5. Chapter 5

Deplane is a funny sort of word. Ruth often thought about things like that, the way language worked. If she were travelling by boat, it would not be called 'deboating' or 'deshipping' but rather 'disembarking.' And why that anyway? Embarking on a journey meant going, so why was leaving the journey 'disembarking' and not simply 'disbarking' or something like that? And getting on a plane was called boarding. Why not 'disboarding' when getting off? Or some other word altogether? 'Deplaning' seemed so odd. Yet that's what she was doing. Deplaning. Getting off the plane in Paris at Charles de Gaulle Airport.

She could not help the little fantasy in her mind as she carried her bag in the crowd of people on the jetway from the airplane to the gate. She had dreamed of one day doing exactly this with Harry. He wanted to go to Paris, to take the European Grand Tour, and he had wanted to have her go with him. He wanted to go to Paris with her because of his sense of romance.

What would it have been like, if things had gotten to progress in the way they'd begun? Without Cotterdam ruining any chance they might have had? Harry surely would have still pursued her. At Havensworth, when he'd looked at her in the hallway with his shirt unbuttoned to show some of the skin of his chest and looked at her with dark, haunted, desperate eyes. He had looked so sad and yet so wanting. And she wanted him, too. Oh if only she had been brave! If only she had allowed herself to do what she'd wanted and take a step toward him and bury her face in his neck and let him wrap his arms around her. She had run away from him that night, but only barely. And if he had tried once or twice more, her resolve surely would not have lasted. He would have been able to convince her that her fears were unfounded, or even if they weren't, that they could be together in spite of those fears. What they could have had together, the love they might have shared, that could have been so much more than anything she'd ever experienced. That's what had scared her at the time, and that was what she regretted so bitterly now.

And if he had convinced her, if she had gotten to be held in his arms and kissed by his lips and loved by him in the way she had dreamed about, they would have ended up here. Ruth was sure of that. Harry did have a romantic streak in him, and he would have wanted to make good on that dream of Paris. He would have made sure that, at some point, they could take this trip together. To hold hands in this crowded jetway and take a taxi to a posh hotel—for Harry Pearce would not allow for anything less—and to walk together along the Seine and kiss on top of the Eiffel Tower and spend a whole day wandering the Louvre and having dinner in some little café in Montmartre where the food was unexpectedly incredible. All of that they could have shared. If only…if only.

But then light came at the end of the tunnel, quite literally, and Ruth was released into Gate 27 to a huge crowd of people going every which way. Charles de Gaulle was always crowded, surely. The plane from which she'd just deplaned was going to board another two hundred people, all of whom were lined up and pushing one another to present their passes and find their seats. More people yet were rushing one way and another, towards baggage claim and ground transport and to other terminals to flights somewhere else.

Ruth had no plan of what she was going to do. Get out of the airport, that had to be first. Thankfully she did not need to worry about customs. Not yet, anyway. Yet another reason to be grateful for the EU. But she had very little money, and she would need to find a room and some privacy to plan her next move.

As she stood off to the side, rummaging in her bag to keep herself from looking too suspicious while she was thinking, the crowd parted slightly. And at that exact moment, Ruth happened to look up. Her breath caught in her throat as she got a glimpse of the face that was to her the dearest in all the world.

A tear fell unchecked down her cheek, and she could not help but smile. "Harry," she breathed.


	6. Chapter 6

Harry had spent the whole flight to Paris reviewing the files that Malcolm had sent to his phone. He'd been able to trace Ruth's movements in Budapest. She'd been there for a while, apparently. Using a different name. Renata Eder worked in a bank as a teller. She had been seen with a man named Alexandru Nistor, who was well known to police. The man had a criminal record a mile long, in and out of prison for a variety of mob-related crimes. Harry had to wonder what Ruth—even Ruth as Renata—was doing with a man like that.

But Malcolm had also sent pictures of Renata. Harry gazed at each and every one far longer that was really necessary. But he could not help it. He had only seen Ruth's face in the recesses of his memory for two long years. And now he had pictures. Pictures of her smiling in the bank. Pictures of her looking small and afraid on Nistor's arm. Pictures of her trying to hide her face behind her hair so the bruises did not attract attention. And at that point, Harry had to put the phone down. He could not see her like that. It just hurt too much.

His plane landed and Harry raced through Charles de Gaulle, checking the screens for arrivals. He had Ruth's flight memorized. It was arriving right now at Gate 27. He jogged through the airport, trying to avoid crowds as best he could, but it was slow going. He needed to see her, he needed to get to her. That was all that mattered was finding Ruth.

And then she was there. A throng of people parted just enough that he could see her look up from rummaging through her carryall. Their eyes met, and Harry felt his heart practically burst in his chest. Everything in him was screaming to run to her, to take her in his arms, to kiss her with everything he had. But for some reason, he couldn't move. He could only stare at her as she looked back at him with tears falling down her cheeks and a beaming smile when she saw him. He felt much the same, though such things likely did not show on his face as they did on hers.

Harry fixated on that moment of their blessed reunion, being so close and yet still thrumming with the anticipation for when they would cross the divide and be together again. He yearned to take her face in his hands, hold her close, hear her lovely voice and feel the beating of her heart against his.

But so focused was he on Ruth that he did not notice the man dressed in a black jumper and black cap and denim jeans before it was too late. Harry was too late to do anything about that man whose hand was in the pocket of his jumper and pressed against Ruth's back, whispering in her ear. Harry could do nothing by the time he saw Ruth's expression change from one of elation to one of anxious terror.

The man was leading Ruth very quickly away, weaving through the crowd. She intelligently did not look back at him, for that would have given them both away. But Harry was not going to lose her again, not now that she was so close. He had no choice but to follow.


	7. Chapter 7

Whether the assailant knew Harry was following, he couldn't be sure. Ruth did not look back to see where he was, she did not call out or try to resist. If she were just an ordinary woman being kidnapped, that would be a bad idea. But Ruth was not an ordinary woman, and she was doing exactly what she should have done: keep her eyes open for an opportunity to escape and not let on that she knew Harry and that there was any reason to fear someone on their tail.

Ruth's captor led her out to the front of the airport where taxis were lined up for a whole city block. But he bypassed the cabs, for which Harry was quite grateful, and shoved Ruth into the back of a black Peugeot. Someone else was driving the car, obviously waiting for this man to bring Ruth to this very vehicle. And the car sped away.

Harry had to act fast. He could not lose them. He could not let Ruth slip away. He had to get to her, no matter what. And so he quickly memorized the plate of the car as it maneuvered through the heavy traffic. Harry leapt into action.

Someone in a blue Renault pulled up to the curb right beside Harry. Bloody French drove on the wrong side of the road, but Harry knew what he was doing. He went right up to the driver's door, demanded she get out, and subtly flashed his gun to properly get the point across. And he did it all in hideously pronounced French. He did not have time to get that proper guttural sound to the R's.

The driver of the car ran off to find some useless Parisian plod, shouting and ranting and whatever else. Again, Harry had no time for it. He got into the car on the left side and immediately pulled out into traffic.

The thought briefly entered his mind that the Home Secretary was going to have his head for this. Rogue mission to France, stealing a car, engaging in a chase with nothing more than a gun and a desperate need to rescue the woman he loved. Christ, it was like out of some bad romance novel.

But through some rather clever negotiations in traffic—it was the Parisian way, after all—Harry was able to catch up to his quarry. They'd left the chaos of the airport and got on the highway. Or whatever it was the French considered a highway. He did his best to keep the black Peugeot in sight, but it wasn't the most unique vehicle on the road. And Harry did not want to be spotted tailing it. He kept two or three cars back and changed lanes periodically to ensure that he was still following the right car. What he wouldn't have given to have Malcolm following on satellite right now. But in their haste, no such arrangements could be made.

The road they travelled on skirted the heart of Paris. Just as well, that sort of traffic would be unbearable and far too easy to lose chase. They'd gone about ten kilometers already, by Harry's judgement. He hoped it wasn't too much further. But he also reminded himself that Ruth's transportation was likely not the goal. They were taking her somewhere. And until they got her there, she'd be alive and safe. Harry just needed to hold on a little while longer. And pray to a nonexistent god that this stupid Renault had enough petrol to keep up.

On and on they drove. On and on the kilometers and the minutes ticked by. Then finally, the Peugeot slowed and took an exit. Harry did the same. He was now right behind them, though tried not to follow too closely.

The signs pointing the direction started to make him a little nervous. The Bois de Boulogne was not a place he wanted to go under these circumstances. But as they got closer, it became quite obvious that this was the ultimate destination.

Ruth was being taken out to the woods. And nothing good had ever happened when bad men took Ruth out to the woods.


	8. Chapter 8

Ruth felt her panic increasing. She should have known something like this might happen. For a moment, she wondered if her captor perhaps had nothing to do with Alexandru Nistor and covering up his crimes after she had tipped off the authorities to what he'd been doing at the bank. The man who had held her at gunpoint and snarled in her ear to keep walking was not a man she recognized. He'd said nothing to her as she was taken out of the airport and shoved in the back of a car. But then she saw who was driving the car.

"Renata, nice to see you again," the slimy man in the driver's seat said, grinning evilly into the rearview mirror.

"I see Alex has you doing his dirty work still, Marius," she replied. Ruth did not enjoy speaking Romanian and had hoped she could give it up. But she had not been able to escape as cleanly as she'd anticipated.

There was no more talking after that, though, for which Ruth was grateful. She needed to think. She needed to keep calm. Marius drove the car for about half an hour. The man with the gun now had it out of his pocket and still pointed toward her from where he sat next to her in the back seat. Ruth tried but was unsuccessful in looking behind them to see if Harry was following.

Oh Harry! She'd seen him! He was right there! He'd gotten her message, however vague but obvious it was. She had hoped beyond hope that the name Ruth Pearce might flag something on the Grid, and it must have. For why else would Harry have been waiting for her flight from Bucharest to arrive in Paris? He could not have known otherwise. But he had come to rescue her just as she'd hoped he might.

Only now, she actually did need rescuing. Was it now too much to hope that he was still following? That he would catch up to her captors? Ruth did not know if he would or could. She had no idea if he'd seen where she'd been taken or been able to get a car to follow them. As much as she wanted for Harry Pearce to be her knight in shining armor and charge up on a white horse to take her to safety and kiss her and make a happily ever after for them, she was far less naïve than she'd once been. If Ruth wanted to get out of this alive, she would have to figure out a way all on her own.

"Alexandru wants to talk to you, Renata," Marius said, pulling the car into the park.

Ruth tried not to be frightened by the fact that they were entering the huge wooded park on the outskirts of Paris where no one would think to look for her or find her body when she was inevitably killed and dumped under a tree somewhere. But best not think of that now. She focused her attention back on Marius. "Where is he?" she asked.

"Back in Bucharest. But I will call him so he can talk to you. And we will film what happens next. He will want to watch it for a long time."

"Watch what?" she asked innocently, already knowing what the answer would be.

"Your death," Marius sneered.

Ruth closed her eyes for no more than two seconds, just so she could take one deep, calming breath. She let her mind be filled with her former life, the life of Ruth Evershed of Section D. Everything she had ever learned from Zoe and Tom and Danny and Adam and Fiona and Malcolm. And the one thing that stood out to her when she allowed the thought to flit into her mind was the overwhelming truth that she had to have faith in Harry. Always, for everyone on the Grid, trusting Harry meant saving lives and a successful day; not trusting Harry meant death and failure. Ruth, of course, had more reason than anyone to trust in Harry. She would bet her life on him any day. Though she also knew that Harry believed in her, too. He would want her to bet her life on herself. And so she would.


	9. Chapter 9

Harry parked the stolen car and went to find the black Peugeot. He'd seen it park, but he wanted to get closer. He also put his gun in an easier to access place, just in case.

It took only a minute to find the car and the men who were inside it. But Ruth was not there. Harry knew that because he saw one man shouting on the phone and the other pounding his fists on the car in frustration. And Harry smiled. "Good girl," he muttered to himself. She must have escaped.

He avoided being seen and edged his way into the woods. Ruth must have gone in there. She was hopefully running for safety. He just hoped he'd catch up to her somehow. Easier said than done in the midst of the dark tree cover.

Or so he thought. He was jogging lightly, hoping to cover ground quickly, when a hiss of his name stopped him in his tracks. He turned and was immediately inundated with a fierce hug.

"Oh god, Harry!" she cried into his shoulder.

"Ruth, Ruth, shh, it's alright, I'm here," he soothed, holding her tightly.

Harry could not really believe it. It was something out of a dream to have Ruth, _his Ruth_, in his arms. He'd only held her like this twice. Once, after their dinner date when he'd walked her to the front door of her house and she had let him hold her and gently kiss her goodnight. Then on the docks when she'd left. The last time he'd seen her. Until now.

"Are you alright? Are you hurt? What happened, Ruth?" he asked. She lifted her head to look at him, tears shining in her eyes. He put his hands on her cheeks and wiping the dampness away. Some of her makeup came off as well, revealing dark bruising across her face. "Oh Ruth," he breathed sadly.

"It's okay, Harry. That's why I left. I didn't think they'd follow me. But I kicked Marius when he opened the door for me and I just ran. Thank god you were following. I knew you would. I assume Malcolm found me on the flight manifest?"

He nodded. "Ruth Pearce?"

She blushed slightly and smiled. "I hoped that would catch someone's notice."

"It did. But why did you need us to find you? How did you get involved with Nistor?" he asked.

"I was working as a bank teller. It was a mildly interesting job. Others I'd had bored me to tears. I was only in Romania for about five months. I didn't plan on staying too long, but I thought something odd was going on with this man who flirted with me and always came to the bank on Tuesdays with two or three men in tow. And he…"

"Yes?" Harry asked sharply.

"Well, I knew something was going on, so I let him take me out so I could see what was happening, and then once I figured out he was laundering money and went to the authorities, he somehow found out and had his men take me to his office where he yelled a bit and hit me. As soon as they took me back to my flat with a warning, I packed a bag and got new papers the next day and took the first flight to Paris. And, well, here we are."

Harry stroked her hair affectionately, absolutely marveling at the ability to finally do so. "Nistor is involved with the mob, Ruth. He probably had informants in the government who tipped him off about you when you were tipping them off about him."

She furrowed her brow. "I can't tell you what a nightmare it's been not having access to intelligence files," she grumbled.

"I'm sure," he sympathized. She was brilliant, his Ruth. The cleverest there ever was, in his view. Lack of information had always frustrated her. She also could not seem to leave well enough alone. That's how she'd ended up on the Grid. That's how she'd ended up involved with Cotterdam. That's how she'd ended up back in his arms again after two long years apart.

Ruth gazed up at him. One of her arms left his waist and moved between them, stroking his face gently. "I never thought I'd see you again."

"Nor I, Ruth," Harry replied.

She smiled. "No one's called me Ruth in such a long time." Ruth rested her head on his shoulder again, letting him hug her closer. "Nothing has felt safe or right or real since I had to leave London. Leave you," she murmured.

"I didn't want you to go," he told her softly.

Ruth lifted her head once more. "I know. But I…"

Whatever Ruth had been about to say was cut off by the sound of gunshots.


	10. Chapter 10

"Run," Harry snapped, not hesitating a moment before throwing her off him and pulling his gun out.

"Harry, what are you…"

"Go, Ruth!" he shouted.

Ruth could not help but follow his command. Something in her still reacted to him as her boss, never mind him as a man she trusted more than any other. She stumbled slightly over her shoes—bloody clumsy as ever—and took off through the woods.

She got far enough away that she began to tire, though the adrenaline coursing through her in that time of terror was more than enough to keep her going. Her heart pounded dangerously and her breath came in short, quick pants. She hid behind a tree to keep out of danger but could not allow herself to be too far from Harry. She couldn't do it, couldn't leave him again. She had only just gotten him back. She needed to be in his arms and be with him as much as she needed air to breathe. It would have been smarter, of course, for her to do as he said and to run as far away as she could. But she just couldn't do it.

Harry was watching as the two men who he'd seen in the black Peugeot made their way though the dense forest. They were shouting at one another and both had guns. And he heard them call out for Renata. As though she'd be so stupid as to answer them. Though Harry knew very well the kind of intimidation such a thing could cause to a layperson; call their name, let them know how close how close you are, strike terror into their hearts and cause them to make missteps and get caught. But Ruth, though, Ruth knew better.

The shouting got closer and closer, as did the gunshots—done for the same intimidating purpose as the shouting. And when one of them, the one who had taken Ruth at the gate in the airport, got close enough, Harry revealed himself from his hiding place and shot the man.

He fell like a sack of bricks. Hadn't even known what had happened before he was down. And Harry knew from experience and instinct that the man was dead.

His companion, however, was now alerted to Harry's presence. He shot in the general direction. Harry took off running. He'd catch up to Ruth, if he could. They could both get to safety and call for backup and escape the danger before this assassin caught up to them.

There were more shots in Harry's direction. Getting very close, actually. And his knee was screaming in protest to all this bloody running. He fired blindly behind himself as he ran, though he knew he wasn't even getting anywhere close. He also had to preserve his ammunition if at all possible.

A bullet whizzed by his head so close that he could feel the disturbance of air next to his ear. Another came right after.

"Harry!"

Ruth's voice made him falter slightly. And out of nowhere, he was shoved to the ground. She'd jumped out from somewhere and pushed him out of the line of fire. He fell and rolled away a few feet.

From where he'd fallen, Harry turned to see Ruth lying on the forest floor, gasping and clutching her stomach. She looked at him with wide, terrified eyes.

They were not out of danger. Harry grabbed his gun and fired three shots with deadly accuracy. Right into the chest of the pursuer. He fell to the ground like his companion had. And then there was silence. Deathly silence.

Harry scrambled over dirt and leaves and rocks toward Ruth. She had not moved from where she'd fallen after pushing him. And then Harry saw why.

Sticky red blood covered her hand where she clutched her stomach.


	11. Chapter 11

"I'm so sorry, Harry," she moaned. Her breath hitched with pain and emotion.

Harry was kneeling beside her where she lay. He reached out to brush her hair from her face and cup her cheek in his hand. "Shh, it's alright, Ruth. It's going to be alright." It was training and instinct and nothing else that kept his voice clear and even.

With his free hand, he put his gun down and reached into his pocket for his mobile. With the press of two buttons, he dialed a call.

As it rang, he continued to speak softly to her. "We're going to be fine, Ruth. We're going to go home. Just hang on for me."

She tried to smile. "It's been so long since I've heard my name. I never realized before how much I liked it, since I couldn't have it for two whole years. It suits me, I think, better than anything else."

"Yes, it does. Ruth Catherine Evershed. Beautiful name. Very fitting," he replied, desperately holding on to the conversation and watching her eyes brighten ever so slightly when he said her full name aloud. He too tried to smile at her. It had been a long time since he'd said her name aloud. Her full name. No matter what the context, including their current one, the mere thought of her filled his chest with a feeling he could not quite describe.

The phone was answered on the other line. "Harry? Have you got her?" came Malcolm's anxious voice.

"Ambulance in the Bois de Boulogne. Right now. Right now," Harry demanded. Even still, his voice was even. Quiet and urgent and terrifyingly grave. And he knew that Malcolm knew him well enough to understand the tone. Harry hung up before waiting for an answer. He dropped the phone and used both hands to hold on to Ruth. He took her hand. "Help is on the way, Ruth," he told her.

"God, I'm so sorry, Harry," she said again, a tear escaping out of her eye and falling against where his hand cradled her face.

"What are you sorry for?" he asked, wiping that tear away. Perhaps keeping her talking would keep her alive longer.

"I never wanted to leave you. You know that, I know. But I just had to tell you. I know I broke your heart a hundred times over."

"Not a hundred times. Just once or twice."

"Well, that's once or twice too many. Please believe me when I say I'm sorry for everything I did to you. Before. And since. I know you were worried about me. Because I tend to get myself into horrible trouble like this. I'm such a bloody mess," she lamented.

Harry squeezed her hand. "You're not a mess. You're brilliant. In every way. And I think you're lovely. The loveliest thing I've ever seen. And I worry about you because I…" He realized that he was not sure if he should say those words.

Ruth swallowed hard, her breath coming in shallow pants now. Harry did not dare look down to see the status of the bleeding from her wound. "Harry?" she whimpered.

"Yes, Ruth?" he replied eagerly.

"Just…just once more…would you…"

"Yes?"

"Would you kiss me?"

Never in his wildest dreams did he believe he'd hear her say those words. Never did he think she'd come home to him—not that they were home here in the woods in Paris—but they were _together_. And she asked him to kiss her. And he did.


	12. Chapter 12

Ruth felt the warmth of Harry's lips on hers, the soft plumpness of those gorgeous lips of his. And as incredible as it felt, as much as his kiss made her whole being soar, she began to feel cold. She whimpered slightly, not from desire but from pain.

Harry must have understood the difference, for he pulled away immediately. "Hold on, Ruth," he whispered against her skin.

"I want to tell you, Harry…before I can't…"

"Shh, no, none of that. Tell me when we get home. When we go back to London," he protested desperately.

But Ruth understood what was happening. She knew she'd been shot. She knew there was a very good chance she'd not make it to London. And there was so much she'd never gotten to say to him. So much she'd never let him say to her. "Harry, please," she begged.

He stroked her hair softly, lovingly. "Alright, Ruth. What do you want to tell me?"

It took her a moment to push past the ever-increasing pain, to think clearly and to find the words. That had always been her problem in the past, making her mind slow down so she could get the words out and to be brave enough to give them voice. "I've been everywhere in the last two years, it seems. All over the place. And never as myself. I've told a million lies since that day I left you, Harry, and I…"

"Yes?"

"I want to tell a single truth. Before…before I go…"

Harry's grip on her hand tightened. "You're not going anywhere. Not now. Not now that I've finally got you back." His voice cracked and if her vision weren't swimming, she might have been able to see if he was crying. Was she herself crying? She felt like she was.

"From the moment we met, you became the most important person I've ever met. Your approval as my boss was everything. Your guidance as a mentor was everything. Your kindness as a friend was everything. And your affection as…as more than a friend. It was everything. You are everything. And there's you in everything I've do." She tried to swallow the lump in her throat. Was it a lump? It was getting harder to breathe. Like she had to cough or something. She felt like her throat was dry but that she was drowning at the same time. "Harry," she continued desperately, needing to finish before she couldn't. She nearly couldn't. "Harry, we left it as something wonderful that was never said and I…I…"

Ruth's vision faded to black. She couldn't see. She couldn't hear. She couldn't feel. She wasn't in pain any longer. That was nice. That helped. But she could not feel Harry's hand holding hers or the puff of his breath on her cheek. She wished she could look at his dear, sweet face once more. That face had haunted her, as a guardian angel and a spectral spirit. How often over the last two years had she closed her eyes and seen him? That darkness of his eyes, the way they'd sometimes brighten and sparkle when he looked at her. The lines of sorrow and laughter—though certainly plagued by much more sorrow—that had aged him beyond his years. And that mouth that almost hypnotized her when he spoke. All of it so wonderfully, perfectly Harry. And if that was the last thing she ever thought about, that would be enough.

But as Ruth drifted away, as her senses ceased transmitting information to her mind, she did not hear the way Harry had interrupted her final words. She did not hear his hopeless, begging cry when he said, "I love you."


	13. Chapter 13

The world always fell away when this happened. Which was precisely the point. Harry's lips and tongue teased her into a whimpering puddle of desire. But then his hand moved to that familiar place on her belly and she was jolted back to the present.

Ruth pulled away from his kiss with a smile. "Mmm, that was lovely."

He could not resist dropping a couple more pecks on her lips. "I quite agree."

Harry's hand always seemed to drift to her belly when they kissed like this—not that they really ever kissed precisely like _this_—because he knew that if it were not for that scar from her surgery, she would not be here to kiss him.

She had nearly died in his arms that day in the woods. It felt like a lifetime ago, sometimes. Other times, it felt as though the two months since that day had whizzed by. The sirens drowned out the way Harry had cried and begged for Ruth when she'd lost consciousness. The emergency team had to pry her out of his arms and give him a mild tranquilizer just so he'd calm down. But the doctors had done magic that day. They'd repaired the damage. And when Ruth had woken up after her surgery to find Harry sitting beside her bed, she had smiled. And she had told him she loved him. And he had kissed her.

And now he kissed her once more. He'd lost count how many times over the last months. He had stayed with her through her recovery in France before she was cleared to travel back to the UK. Malcolm had sorted all of the paperwork—once Harry had made a call to the Home Secretary and asked for a favor to bring Ruth Catherine Evershed back to life—and they'd been able to go home. Together.

"Do I really have to be here? I mean, what are people going to say?" she asked for the thousandth time. She saw the way Harry's expression tightened at her questions, and she knew he was mildly annoyed. But she couldn't help feeling uncomfortable with the whole thing. That was why he'd started snogging her in the lift to begin with, to make her calm down. And it had worked, but he'd not answered her.

Harry took hold of other hand and gave it a comforting squeeze. "This is the last time I'll ever be here. And I know your friends want to see you. See us."

"See us?" she asked in slight surprise.

He gave a small smile at that. "Ruth, why do you think Malcolm had an alert out for the name 'Ruth Pearce'? It's because he and all the rest of them were rooting for us, as mortifying as that prospect might be. The both of us made a right mess of things. But that's all in the past now. So let me get that last box of things from my office and we can say our goodbyes to Malcolm and Jo and Ros and Lucas."

"I don't know Lucas."

"Believe me, you don't need to. He's not very pleased that I'm leaving," Harry said darkly.

"Oh?"

"I may be the reason he was in a Russian prison for eight years. But I did manage to get him back a few months ago. He's not entirely adjusted yet and probably thinks I'm abandoning him again."

She rubbed his arm comfortingly. "It's not like you to abandon your people. Are you sure you're making the right choice?" She had worried—and still did—that Harry wasn't thinking rationally when he told her he was going to retire from the Service. It was quite a sacrifice for him to make, just to be with her. And while she wanted nothing to do with MI-5 ever again, she did not relish the idea of Harry coming to resent her for being the reason he left the life he'd been devoted to for thirty years.

Harry sighed in slight annoyance again. He'd been over this with her again and again. Maybe she'd eventually understand, when he asked her to be Ruth Pearce officially and not just as a legend. "I'm making the right choice," he said simply. And he was. He knew he was. It was time for him to step off the wall. He'd only stayed up there to make Ruth's sacrifice worthwhile. But now that he had her back, his penance was through. And their reward was to be together. He'd not do anything to put her or their future in danger ever again.

The lift stopped and they were shown the old, familiar hallway that led to the pods. Ruth gave Harry's hand a squeeze. "I love you," she said. Just because she could. Just because it bore repeating.

He smiled, perhaps brighter than he'd ever smiled within Thames House. "I love you, too," he replied.

They walked together to the Grid where they would leave one life for a new one. A life all their own. Together.


End file.
